Between the covers
Being a book slut, I naturally approve of anyone who has more books than blood cells. This Wall Street Journal article by Luc Sante admirably captures how easy it is to become overwhelmed by the books in your life. My favorite bit: "Books entered my house under cover of night, from the four winds, smuggled in by woodland creatures, and then they never left. Books collected on every surface; I believe that somehow they managed to breed."

For me books are are drug. They are my heroin. I physically cannot go into a bookstore and come out again empty-handed. Like a retriever on the scent I sniff the air and head eagerly towards the new releases section. I wander aimlessly through History, deciding that my knowledge of the Medici popes is sadly thin and I must rectify that weakness. I become unduly fascinated by biographies of people I've never heard of. "Wow," I'll say as I consume the summary on the back cover. "This woman invented the envelope and had an affair with the King of Bohemia. I must have this!" And I slip it under my arm while I look for more treasures, even though in a more rational moment I will wonder what the hell I was thinking buying a biography of some unknown women whose only claim to fame is as the mistress of a minor royal.

You see, that's my other problem. I'll buy a book, full of lust and optimism, and then get home and put it in my towering to-be-read pile. Then, a month later, when I'm looking for something to read, I'll pick it up and have no interest whatsoever in reading it. That's why I agree with Mr. Sante. I swear these books breed other books. Or they sneak it at night like tiny literary elves. Because I often pick up a book that I know I purchased and have absolutely no desire to read it. Why is that?

Perhaps books are like my shoes. I know the stereotype of women having 150 pairs of shoes. Surely they must occasionally fall madly in love with a pair of purple suede pumps that they determine they must have. Then, a few weeks later, they go into their closet and break forth with a "what was I thinking?"

So what am I thinking? Going back to the heroin analogy, I suppose I don't think. I crave. I need. It's a sad addiction for which I suppose I should seek a cure. What's the bookstore equivalent of methadone? A library, perhaps? In my case I think the only cure is to avoid bookstores. But that's hard to do. Here's my sad, sordid confession. Sometimes, late at night. When Husband is asleep. I .... now try not to judge me too harshly ... I visit Amazon. Or Barnes and Noble. Being able to shop for books at 4 am should be illegal.

Coming to a website near you
Husband and I saw the new Indiana Jones movie today. (It was OK.) But before the movie we had to sit through the obligatory 25 minutes of movie trailers. Which leads me to ask: when did it become necessary for all movies to have their own website?

I've noticed it for years, of course. Every movie ad on TV has a web address listed, but it just seems so silly. I've never gone to a movie website. Have you? Why? Going to a website is just doing their advertising for them. They can market to people with very little effort. In my case (and I admit I'm probably not their target audience) if there's a movie I want to see, I will -- without the website convincing me to do so. If there's a film I'm iffy about, I'm just not going to put in the effort - or waste my time - by voluntarily going to a page that's basically a big commercial.

The other thing that cracks me up are the addresses. When every film needs a website sooner or later they're gonna have to do some scrambling to come up with a URL that makes sense. If they'd had an Internet back in 1939, would we have all spent the months leading up to the premiere of Gone With the Wind visiting dontknownothinboutbirthinnobabies.com?

It's really amazing how movie marketing has changed over the years. Oh yeah, and credits. Movie credit are now about 7 minutes long to ensure the set nurse and the caterer gets a mention. I watched some old movie the other night and it had one screen of cast, one screen for producer, director, screenplay and then one screen for the basic crew. That was about it. You could sit through all of the credits in about 1 minute flat. Now it seems that everyone even remotely connected with a film gets their name mentioned. I suppose it's nice for them. And I guess the union insists. But why does the audience have to sit through a credit for the star's personal assistant or all 47 people who worked on animation? I used to sit through credits all the way through at the end of a movie. No more. My the time the credits are done I'm out in my car and pulling out of the parking space.

How do parents do it?
Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm) is sick. She's been throwing up most of the day and is very stand-offish, which is unusual for her. So we took her to the vet. He thinks she's fighting off an upper respiratory infection and that it's nothing too serious. But until the diagnosis came back, both Husband and I were worried sick. We had to wait 45-minutes while they took X-rays to make sure she hadn't swallowed anything and that was highly stressful.

How do parents do it when their kids are sick? I mean Cipher is as close as Husband and I will ever get to offspring. And to those who don't have pets believe me, they are definitely part of the family. I mean I honestly love Cipher more than I love some of my siblings. So wondering and worrying about her is natural when she's ill. But not having kids I can't imagine how stressful it is when one of them is sick or needs a doctor. (Mama D, you must have nerves of steel!)

Luckily Cipher home now. Still not herself, but they gave her some antibiotics (she has a fever of 104) and she does appear to be more alert that she was earlier today. And we have her X-rays and some additional info in case we have to take her to the emergency vet hospital tomorrow. But I'm exhausted just having spent an afternoon on pins and needles about our little girl.

Parents, you are all amazing.

Doodle for Google
Sometimes you just gotta love Google. Check out the finalists in the Doodle for Google contest. Kids from grades K-12 were asked to come up with a design for a Google logo around the theme of "What if...?" The winners are pretty danged cool.

Me and Peter Pan
In today's SF Chronicle, Carol Lloyd writes in her Surreal Estate column about young people who are basically choosing homelessness as a part-time option because they can't afford to buy real estate. (I'm not summarizing it well, but hey, it's 5 am -- I'm surprised I'm coherent enough to type.)

Anyway, in this article she makes the point: "In America, where society expects young adults to grow up, move out and make a life (or risk being ridiculed as "failing to launch,") our entire mythology of adulthood rests on access to affordable housing."

I think I love that line "entire mythology of adulthood." I have previously mentioned my severe case of house envy. While other women might crave motherhood and quick-step to the ticking of their biological clock, I crave walls that I can paint any color I want, kitchen cabinets I can resurface, and all the freedom that comes from actually owning where you live.

I know that home ownership brings with it more than its share of headaches. But as a life-long migraine sufferer, I'd love the chance to have a headache that actually gets me something I want. In all honesty my longing for a home borders on a depressing obsession. Depressing, because in the Bay Area buying a house is pretty much impossible unless: you get help from a rich relative; your Google options vest; you have a 2-income household where you both earn six figures and neither one of you has spent a penny in the past 10 years; you win the lottery; or, you buy a 500-square foot tool shed that you share with 9 other people.

None of the options, alas, apply to Husband and me. And so, houseless in wonderland, I haven't made that step to adulthood that Ms. Lloyd points out.

Perhaps that's while I can't believe I'm in my late 40s. I don't have any adult milestones. I have no kids. I have no house. I have no brilliant career. And when I think of people in their 40s, I see them in my mind in their SUVs, driving Trevor and Blythe to soccer practice and then home to their McMansion. When I think of me, I see someone who still doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up.

In many ways this "I can't be an adult, I don't have a house" mentality is real. That sort of nagging feeling that you have nothing to show for your years on earth. No visible sign of achievement. I suppose I could start walking around with my Master's thesis under my arm to prove that I have, at least, gotten out of my jammies on occasion. But I mourn the fact that I'll never have the one thing I really, truly want.

The house down the street from us is for sale at $1.6 million. $1.6 million!?!? It's a 1950s suburb special! There is no possible way that house is work that much money. In Topeka, or someplace sane (real estatingly speaking) it's a $300,000 house. Here it's an astronomical wonder. Hubble-worthy.

You know what phrase I absolutely hate? "Starter home." What the hell is that? Is it like sourdough starter? Do you put a little home in your fridge and wait for it to ferment? In my parent's day (I can't believe I just wrote that phrase), you did not buy a house with the firm intention of selling it in 5 years to buy a bigger house. You bought a house because you needed a place to live. What a concept! A house as a house -- not as an investment, a stucco college fund, or a retirement plan. And that shift -- from home to bank account -- is where everything began to fall apart.

If Husband and I could afford a house right now I'd wither want to buy the place where I've rented for 14 years (good lord) or someplace similar. I neither want nor need 18 foot ceilings, 4 bathrooms for 2 people, granite countertops, or a sauna. I just want a cozy little place where Husband, Cat, and I can relax. And I could easily see us never moving.

But I'm still a kid. The biggest symbol of adulthood continues to elude me and probably always will (unless we move, which I really don't want to do as all my stuff is here, as well as most of the people I love). My friends are all grown-ups. Most have kids, all have houses. Luckily they put up with my immaturity. And I keep tossing the real estate section of the Sunday paper into the recycle bin before it makes it into the house because why window shop when it'll just depress you? So until I win the lottery, get adopted by Google, or move to Peoria, it looks like I -- like Peter Pan -- will never grow up.

Happy Father's Day to a father I don't particularly like
That's what this gift says to me. The perfect present for someone with no taste from someone with even less. (I think I love the "Sculptural cannon announces each hour with the sound of cannon fire" part best. I mean who the hell would want this thing?

And speaking of gifts. A few years ago Husband, with typical generosity, went to some trouble to find me a purple leather wallet. You see I happen to love the color purple (though not so much the book of that name) and am especially fond of purple leather. But since I happen to look like a giant grape when I actually wear the color, I limit my fondness to accessories such as the aforementioned wallet. I've had several over the years, and each was pretty hard to track down. The one I have now, Husband found for me in Philadelphia. But, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, the search for the next one will be easier.

Yes folks, all you need to do is visit The Purple Store for all your royalty-colored needs. Wow, there really is a website for everything, isn't there? I SO want this light:


No, really, I do. I really do.

Must be the drugs...
OK, I must have taken too many painkillers because I just saw this story about, well, Canada, and Burma, and um...oh hell, just read the story.

The Tudors of the perfect teeth
Are you watching the Showtime series The Tudors? The second series is about to end (next week) and if you haven't started I suppose it might be a bit late to jump in.

However, if you ignore the questionable history and just watch it as a very well-dressed soap opera, it's rather fun. Truly, it's grown on me. I was dubious last season, the historian in me yelling impotently at the screen as they played fast-and-loose with the historial record. But this time around I've given up all hope of truth and have just wallowed. Yet there's one thing about the series that still has me amused:

Apparently everybody at the court of Henry VIII was beautiful. And everyone had perfect teeth.

If you haven't seen the show, you might want to check out the cast photos to see what I'm talking about. Henry himself, the corpulent and less than gorgeous much-married king is played by the far-too-attractive Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Granted that Henry was a bit of a rock star in his own day. And yes, he didn't start his reign as an overweight barrel of a man. But I sincerely doubt he was 21st century glam.

Compare the two above photos of Mr. Rhys Meyers and the Holbein portrait of the king. Rather different, aren't they?

And it's like that in the whole series. Every woman is stunning. Every man is a stud. Even the clergy are sexy. Hell, Peter O'Toole plays the pope! In spite of his advanced age, there are still glimpses of the dashing young Lawrence of Arabia in the man that make his popeness delicious. (OK, he was one of those carnal popes with sons and grandsons wandering around St. Peter's, but still!)

I can understand wanting eye candy for the leads. After all, people don't really turn in every week to see plain, overweight people getting it on. But do all of the extras have to be so damned attractive? Can't we have a serving man with a wart? An ambassador with a bit of a paunch? A lady-in-waiting who'll probably be waiting a very long time? There's not been a single person on the screen who didn't look like he or she came from the food court at the Malibu mall, rather than the royal court at Westminster. It's the most decorative cast in history. It's like London 90210.

And oh yes, apparently the Tudor court was the high water mark for British dental perfection. Straight, white, glorious teeth abound ... from the music masters to the executioners. I guess flossing was written into the English reformation.

Taunting the gods
I jinxed myself. I was congratulating myself on making it through two whole months (!) without a visit to the ER. Sure enough, Saturday at about midnight I started zarfing and yesterday morning found me and Husband back in ER for the 4th time this year. Woo hoo!

I'm OK. I got my usual two IVs of juice to counteract the dehydration, a shot of the anti-nausea stuff that does the trick and two (count 'em 2!) doses of delaudin (however it's spelled) to stem the back pain. Then back home to sleep all day and most of the night.

Today it's back to chicken broth and getting my strength back. I'm doing fine, just pissed that I had to drag poor Husband back to ER yet again. And even more pissed that our lousy health insurance means it's another grand down the drain to the emergency room folks. I have GOT to stop getting sick. If nothing else, we can't afford it.

Have Sharpie, will correct
I am totally with these guys who are making it their mission to fix misused apostrophes and typos.

I completely understand their pain. Sure, we all make mistakes, and I've been guilty of typing too fast or not thinking fast enough while driving through Apostropheland. But I have to admire their dedication to duty.

Typos I find to be especially annoying and, quite often, hilarious. I will always remember the poster I saw for a local production of "The Dairy of Anne Frank." (So hard to hide from the Nazis when you keep cows in your attic.) I once bought Husband a souvenir magnet from Philadelphia because it said that the City of Brotherly Love is in "Pennsylvannia." A few months ago on one of those annoying news crawls I saw a mention of Barack O'Bama. Ah yes, of the Dublin O'Bamas, a good Irish family. Last holiday season one local store had "Merry X'mas" written on their window. OK, Xmas is already a hideous abbreviation...the unnecessary apostrophe is just mystery-making.

And speaking of holidays, February 14th seems to stump everyone. Is it Valentine's Day or Valentines Day? I say it's the former, because it is the feast day of St. Valentine. Therefore, his day. But Valentine has become an entity of its own, (As in "will you be my Valentine?"), so it could be Valentines Day as in the day of many Valentines. (But I think it's kind of a stupid holiday anyway, so who cares?)

In other news, we have given up on our quest to train Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) from clawing our new chair. We tried, we really did. But the more we tried to discourage her from sharpening her claws on the Ikea throne, the more she became fascinated in pulling all the Fi-Hi (FItzgerald to Hillerman) fiction off our bookshelves. She seems to be especially fond of Forrester's Hornblower books...having pulled most of them onto the floor at one time or another. In fact, I'm rather surprised that she prefers Husband's taste in books to mine. I somehow had her pegged as a fan of mysteries, yet Tony Hillerman received only a cursory tug or two and Martha Grimes, not even a pull. But Hornblower has her fascinated, even if she is pulling them out of order.

There now, comfy?
They manage to be both green and morbid. And yet, oddly, I kinda like it.

Vote for the guy my brother likes
Husband and I received several pieces of mail today urging us to vote for one candidate or another in the upcoming Assembly race. One guy had on his mailing an endorsement from a firefighter and carrying a dramatic photo of firefighters silhouetted against a raging orange wildfire.

Is this guy running for fireman?

I fail to see how the endorsement of firemen should interest me. Now don't get me wrong, I have the highest respect for firefighters. In fact my brother happens to be a fire chief. But voting for someone my brother likes seems like a silly reason to vote for anyone.

I just find it interesting how different positions, such as school teachers, nurses, and police and firemen become wildly important at election time. Many of those people are sadly underpaid for doing such vital work and yet when the polls open they become the endorsers that every candidate wants. It's so odd, because for the other 364 days a year, the "important" occupations are professional athletes, supermodels, movie and TV stars, musicians, and whatever bozo won American Idle. Oh, excuse me, it's American Idol.

So why aren't they on campaign literature. "Bob Snarkly is the only candidate endorsed by Brett Farve." "Hortense Pupnhound has been endorsed by the guy who won the last round of Survivor. "Vote for Hugo Stuffright, the official candidate of the NBA."

But no. Instead we're supposed to respect the opinion of the people we see as everyday heroes but don't, of course, pay like heroes.

"Vote for the guy who has the backing of some really important and wickedly underpaid people doing thankless jobs because we value their opinion, but not their work." Yeah, probably too long to put on a bumper sticker.

The consequences of cheating
I did two sessions at the kitten nursery yesterday. And last night, Husband joined me. I think he enjoyed his first (and, no doubt last) session working with the kitties. They were a total tornado, as usual, and the back-to-back sessions were quite exhausting.

So we got home about 8 last night, quickly changed out of our kitten-food-scented clothes, and hoped Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) would forgive us.

She didn't.

She didn't really act as if she noticed the feline equivalent of lipstick on the collar, but once bedtime set in, so did her revenge.

Not since the night we brought her home has she been so blastedly awake all night. Meowing. Walking on both of us. Muffled thumps from the living room as she pulled books off of shelves, chased balls into furniture, and generally wreaked havoc on the house. I had indulged in a sleeping pill last night and so was extra asleep -- and extra sleepy -- so poor Husband was the one who got up in the middle of the night. (Usually it's my job because usually I'm awake at that time.) I got up at 5 after she successfully pulled everything off of my nightstand (clock, books, water bottle); what a delightfully un-jarring way to wake up.

She is a nocturnal creature, and is often playful at 3 am. But not usually this unstopably destructive. We can only surmise that she was punishing us for cheating on her. Well, we've certainly paid for our sins now. We're sorry, Cipher, please forgive us. Flowers and chocolate will be forthcoming. Please don't make us go on Dr. Phil. We'll be good.

Home from the nursery
Well, today was kitten day. And I gotta confess, I'm pooped. Who knew taking care of little kittens would be so tiring? But there are 17 now and that's quite a few kittens to feed and love. (Yes, socializing with the kittens is part of the job.)

Someone asked me what's involved in kitten duty, so here's the scoop.

First you mix up some food. A blend of canned kitten food and KMR (kitten milk replacement) which you stir up into a stinky brownish goo. Then you lay down lots of towels, for kitten feeding is a messy job. Then you grab some syringes and go to the first nursery. Each kitten is weighed before feeding, and the weight noted on its personal sheet. You also note how much he/she eats in a feeding, if they resisted feeding or ate eagerly, if they're eating on their own, if they go to the bathroom on their own or if you have to stimulate them into pooping.

The feeding is basically grabbing the little one by the scruff of the neck, putting the syringe in their mouths and letting them have it. Some kittens are easier to feed than others and you will always get food on you, the towels, the table, the kitten, your hair, the floor, and anything else within reach. After the feeding (or sometimes in between bouts of feeding) comes the cuddling. That's the best part. These little guys (average weight about 11 ounces) love to be loved. They'll curl up in your lap or on your shoulder and purr, try to eat your hair, nibble on your finger, and generally get used to having people around them. Even at a few weeks old they definitely have personalities. Some are more shy, others more curious. Each is a total delight in their own way.

Once each kitten in the litter is fed and loved, they go back into their nursery and then we clean up. We change towels, syringes, disinfect the scale, the table and ourselves. (You can either wear gloves or wash hands in between litters. I prefer to wash hands so I can pet them without latex.) This is to protect the litters from getting each other's germs. The poor things have been trading a cold around so we're being extra careful with them now. Oh yeah, you also have to clean their litter box, make sure they have water and clean bedding, and are generally comfy until the next crew comes in.

And then you repeat the process with each litter. There are currently 5 litters in the nursery: one with 5 kittens, one with 4, two with 3, and one with 2. My favorite kitten, the one I christened "Tioga" still is a sweetie -- but I have to confess that the two newest litters (the really tiny ones) are almost unbelievably cute.

It's a surprisingly amount of work really and today took about 3 1/2 hours, and three people, to get through the whole nursery. We usually only had 2 people on shift but today we got a new Monday afternoon volunteer. Which, considering the population boom, is a good thing....if it had just been the two of us I'd probably still be there.

I'm doing a fill-in shift on Wednesday, so I'll get to see them all again. Now I really must go and wash my one and only volunteer t-shirt -- it looks like I've rolled in kitten chow.

A victory for love
As my dear friend the Lurker says, "it's a good day to live in California." The California Supreme Court ruling in favor of same-sex marriages brings much joy to many and, unfortunately, much anger to some. The "some" being people who, in the name of God, seem to understand little about what love really means.

It's a bittersweet victory that comes 10 years too late for my best friend to marry his partner. It also comes too late for too many men and women who have died, of AIDS and other causes, without ever being able to have a true, equal, legal marriage with the one they love.

In a world filled with hate it stuns me that so many can be against love, in whatever form it takes. And that ridiculous "gay marriages threaten straight marriages" argument just leaves me shaking my head. I fail to see how my gay friends getting married in any way threatens my marriage. Equally stupid is the "sanctity of marriage" argument of one man and one women when pseudo-celebrities get married for a week in Vegas quickies that are over before the next issue of People comes out. Just how sacred is it when heterosexual marriages can last a sneeze-length?

I am sad and angry that I never got to be "Best Woman" at my dear friend's wedding. But I dance with joy at the thought that so many couples will be able to share in the joy that I felt when I legally married Husband.

...

And speaking of Husband, today marked the 9th anniversary of his first show on KZSU. (And, being a sleepy slacker, I missed the entire thing.) If you get a chance, I urge you to tune in next week. Friday mornings from 6-9 am (Pacific), for a fabulous 3-hours of jazz, world music, blues, maybe even a little bluegrass. It's an unpredictable and delicious mix and an incredible way to start your day.

Anybody got a light?
You gotta love this study that links pot smoking to heart attacks and strokes. The great part is this: it's linked to people who smoke between 78 to 350 joints a week!

Who smokes 350 joints a week? Who are these people? How can they afford it? How do they have the time and energy to take part in a study if all they do is chain smoke pot?

I'm a supporter of medical marijuana (it was crucial to increasing the appetite and stopping the nausea of my dear friend, Steve, when he was fighting AIDS), so ridiculous studies like this just piss me off. Should we be surprised that smoking 50 joints a day has an adverse effect on your health? 50 anything in a day would have an effect. Why don't they do a study of people who smoke 1 joint a day?

Well color me incredibly, incredibly dull!
Range Rover ads are an abomination unto the Lord. But I just saw one that completely crosses the line into absolute ridiculous. Two face-lifted spoiled yuppy types (mother and daughter). And daughter says "I expressed my individuality by ordering a white-on-white Range Rover."

That's individuality? White? Isn't white the absence of individuality? It's a fucking white fucking Range Rover -- a car that nobody who doesn't live in Kenya needs. And here are these wacky "individuals" driving around Atherton in their white-on-white yuppy tank. You want individuality bitch? Go purple. Or polka dots. Or, even better, buy a hybrid. But don't smirk at your gazillion dollar white-on-white car and claim to be an individual.

Sheep.

I want this kitten!
Today was my day at the Peninsula Humane Society and I brought my camera along again. This kitten came in last week and I fell in love with her then. Today just cemented the relationship. Her litter hadn't been named yet, so the other volunteer and I named them. Her two Marmalade brothers are named Jack (short for Jack-o-Lantern) and Milo. This one I named Tioga. For some reason her beautiful coat reminds me of the beautiful rocks around Yosemite. Hence the name.

She is SO sweet. She purrs. She curls up on my shoulder. She's just a total flirt and has completely captured my heart. If I didn't think Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm)) wouldn't freak out I would adopt her. She's just a total sweetheart.

In search of...
Wanted: cashmere cardigan. WIth buttons. Preferably V-neck. Wine colored. (either Merlot or Burgundy. Vintage is negotiable.) Will settle for rich scarlet, but would prefer to stay away from just plain red.

OK, so it's spring. With summer around the corner. Hardly time to be buying sweaters. And yet, for some reason, it just occurred to me to look for one. Cashmere sweaters are the one wardrobe luxury in which I indulge. I love them. And I've been searching for the above described sweater for about 3 years now. It seems to be impossible to find.

Now quite often (don't shoot me) I buy men's cashmere sweaters. Why? Because I like the colors better. Men seem to get all the cool, rich colors. Women's sweaters all look like baby blankets. I look horrible in pastels and I don't like them anyway. I don't want a sweater with a color like "eggshell" or "soft robin." I want actual colors. Deep green. Sapphire blue. And, of course, the long-desired wine color. For colors like that I often have to wander over to the men's department and hope they have it in small. (I refuse to believe that sweaters have genders.)

But my dream cardigan is nowhere to be found. I did a lazy web search and found lots of cashmere sweaters, but none in the desired color. And none in my price range. (I just cannot bring myself to pay $250 for a sweater.) I'll go up to, maybe, $150...but that's pushing it. Typically I pay about $99 (on sale, usually at Macy's during the Christmas rush), and I did find some nice sweaters in that range. But while the styles were right, they were disappointingly displayed with non-colors such as "blush" (is that actually a color?) and "sea foam." (Has anyone actually seen green sea foam?)

It's kind of funny how we get desires in our mind, isn't it? You go through life happily satisfied with your lot and then suddenly you think to yourself "you know, I've always wanted a purple thrumdoodle." So you wander down to the mall, or perhaps onto the web, looking for a thrumdoodle in the perfect shade of purple. (Not too grape-y, not too eggplant-y.) But alas, you can only find thrumdoodles in yellow. And the fact that you can't find one makes you want it all the more. So you go from completely satisfied to "I must find a purple thrumdoodle or die!" Well, perhaps that's an exaggeration, but you get the point.

So what's the point? Well, there isn't one except that it's 4:49 am on a Sunday morning, I can't sleep, and I can't find a purple thrumdoodle. Or even a wine-colored cashmere cardigan.

Amo, amas, amat
Finally all those Latin classic (oh the glory of being a Classics major) have paid off. The Vatican has now put part of their website into Latin. And prowling through (the only way I can bring myself to look at the Vatican website is to test my language skills) I am dismayed to realize just how much Latin I've forgotten.

I guess I should brush up before our Grand Tour in the fall.